Wherever You Go
by TheConsultingAuthor
Summary: Our favorite consulting detective and blogger must settle back into their routine; but a few twists complicate things along the way. Can Sherlock keep John safe? Or did he come back too soon?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

_This came from an Omegle RP I had with a lovely girl known as MTCrazy17 around here. She provided the dialect for both Mr. Watson and Mr. Moran. Much of the raw conversation is posted under her account if you want to look it up. But I decided to run with it and turn it to a multi-chapter story._

_So sit back, grab a cup of tea, and enjoy. Reviews are welcomed and loved. Thank you very much!_

* * *

><p>It had been another late night at the lab. Sherlock shuffled to the door, putting on his coat as Molly bid him a good night. He reached into a pocket, pulling out his phone with no true rush. The screen display read "THREE MISSED CALLS" and "TEXT: JOHN WATSON (x2)." Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing carelessly as he sifted through the messages<em>. What now, John? Not the right kind of milk at Tesco? I'm not getting any; you should know that by now, <em>the detective thought to himself.

The two messages from his companion were odd and piecemeal in nature. Sherlock wasn't sure what was going on, but something wasn't right.

… -JW

I wish it was… -JW

The detective hastily typed out a response as he ran through what the messages meant. Perhaps some sort of code? No. John wasn't that clever. Besides, why would he need code in a regular text message?

Everything alright, John?  
>–SH<p>

John replied within seconds.

Sherlock! Finally, dammit!  
>I've been trying to reach<br>you for hours!  
>–JW<p>

Apologies, I was in the lab  
>–SH<p>

Right. Well while you were  
>at the lab, guess who popped<br>in the store with me?  
>–JW<p>

While I was trying to get  
>the milk.<br>–JW

Sherlock was a bit confused, attempting to decipher the message to the best of his ability. He hated guessing games with John over texts – they were much harder to analyze and deduce.

Let me see. You expect me  
>to be surprised about it.<br>–SH

But it's not a huge surprise;  
>someone who also frequents<br>Tesco.  
>–SH<p>

Someone I'm familiar with.  
>Who would be surprising to<br>hear about 'popping into  
>the store with you?'<br>–SH

Is this about Sarah? Are  
>you still with her? –SH<p>

Sherlock racked his brain as he waited for a response. Perhaps John was shopping, ran into Sarah, took her for drinks, and now – drunk and bothered – had brought her back to the flat. This may be his way of saying 'stay out late unless you want to hear some of the most inhuman sounds coming from the upstairs bedroom.' John was usually good about frequenting his girlfriends' homes rather than 221B, though there were a couple of occasions which two drunken pairs of feet could be heard clambering recklessly up the stairs, followed closely by moaning and rhythmic thumping for a good ten minutes. Sherlock didn't mind, but it didn't make for the best background noise while eyeing specimens through his microscope.

_This better not be about Sarah_, he thought as the phone went off again. _Highly unlikely, though, since he chose to start the conversation with 'finally!' Someone trying to have sex wouldn't be waiting for their friend's reply with baited breath; nor would they respond with such relieved language. What in the world is going on?_

NO! I'm… It was Moran!  
>Sebastian Moran!<br>Moriarty's pet sniper.  
>–JW<p>

Sherlock tensed at the mention of both names. John was in trouble. No more than five seconds later, the phone rang again.

He's got me locked up  
>somewhere right now,<br>Sherlock. Don't ask me  
>what I know.<br>-JW

He knocked me out before  
>I could yell for help;<br>next thing I know,  
>I'm waking up in a bloody<br>basement.  
>–JW<p>

Sherlock's mind was racing. He dialed Lestrade as John's messages kept coming. The detective inspector answered with a sigh.

"What do you need now? I'm not giving you access to-"

"Don't need it. John's in trouble. Kidnapped by Moran; one of Moriarty's men. I need you to assemble a good section of the yard for a quick response. Make sure we've got someone with a good kill shot." Sherlock hung up the phone before Lestrade could answer, hoping to express to him the severity of the situation through his abruptness. The consulting detective looked back to his messages.

Thank god he's a git…  
>stupid enough to leave<br>my phone with me.  
>-JW<p>

Really, John. Why would  
>you wait to tell me you're<br>in danger? You may as well  
>have tried to ask me for<br>a cuppa and a bite to eat.  
>Honestly.<br>-SH

He felt a slight pang of regret as he sent the snide remark to his friend._ John is in trouble, this is not the time for sarcasm_. _Focus. This is no time to let your heart rule your head_.

Well, YOU never texted  
>back. Too busy to notice<br>I'd been at the store for  
>over two hours!<br>-JW

No matter. Have you any  
>clue as to where he's taken<br>you?  
>-SH<p>

I have no idea. My head stings.  
>He clocked me pretty well.<br>-JW

Tell me about the building,  
>John. We'll worry about your<br>head later.  
>-SH<p>

Thanks. I'm probably concussed,  
>but oh well. This place is dank.<br>Shabby. Old building.  
>-JW<p>

Good, John, good. Do you see  
>anything that could give you a<br>clue as to where you are? A smell?  
>Boxes? Signs?<br>-SH

Sherlock was already mapping out the city of London and its surrounding in his head, trying to think of specific decrepit buildings which Moran would take a victim. Isolated. Desolate. Blends into the surroundings. He had a few ideas by the time John's next message came.

Very ruddy builsin, Shelocj.  
>Shit. He's conmnig. Hurry.<br>No tlling wat he'll do.  
>–JW<p>

John was obviously in a panic. That didn't excuse his blatant refusal to give the detective any hints to his whereabouts. Sure, there were hints of fear dancing in the back of Sherlock's skull, but he'd long since shut them off from the rest of his mind. The soldier should be able to do the same thing as far as he was concerned; John was acclimatized to violence, after all.

Listen closely, John.  
>Do everything he tells<br>you to do. Do NOT pull  
>the hero card here.<br>-SH

A few painstaking minutes passed before a response came back.

Smells wet.  
>-JW<p>

Big elevator.  
>-JW<p>

Wool which.  
>-JW<p>

The line of texts sent Sherlock straight to his mind palace.

'_Wool which': Which wool? Types of Wool? No, no. Delete. Woolwhich. __**Woolwich**__._ Sherlock's mind raced, analyzing each of John's texts separately_._

'_Smells wet': Unkempt. Damage to exterior barriers evident_. _Obviously_.

'_Big elevator': Tall building, multiple floors. Cargo must be transported easily from floor to floor_.

_Abandoned buildings in Woolwich. Isolated, large enough to allow gunfire to go virtually unheard_. _Not a factory. Wonderful acoustics in a factory. Needs some sound absorption; carpet, fixtures, shelves. A store. Large store. Department store. Pull up a list of derelict department stores in Woolwich.  
><em>_**The Old Co-op Department Store**__. __**Powis Street.**_

Sherlock redialed Lestrade; the Yarder couldn't pick up quickly enough. "The Old Co-Op Department Store on Powis Street. Woolwich. Sweep the floors, set up a perimeter. Find a way into the basement other than the elevator. A window, perhaps. Set our gunman up there." With a click, Sherlock ended the call and hailed a taxi.

The ride cross town was unbearable. John was still texting, but the messages were becoming increasingly dismal. The two had been sending quick, one-word texts, ensuring they were both on either end of the line.

Just do what he says.  
>-SH<p>

No way in bloody hell am  
>I selling you out for him.<br>I'm a soldier… I'll be… fine.  
>-JW<p>

He's cleaning his gun,  
>Sherlock. Oh Jesus. Oh God.<br>-JW

I don't think I'm gonna make it,  
>mate. Best not rush in.<br>Not worth it.  
>–JW<p>

_What in the hell is he thinking_? Sherlock angrily tapped out his response.

You really are stupid,  
>aren't you? Of course<br>I'm going to come for you.  
>It's not my life at stake here.<br>It's my heart. My FRIEND.  
>-SH<p>

Do me a favor John, just  
>stop thinking and comply<br>with whatever he asks of you.  
>-SH<p>

What an idiot. Giving up! How dare he. Not through the three years Sherlock had been gone had John given up hope. Why was he so weary of it now, when he knew the detective was going to save him? Sherlock chalked it up to a combination of a tired mind, concussion, and adrenaline that made John act so differently.

Please. I won't be able to  
>deal with losing you a second<br>time.  
>-JW<p>

I can't do that, Sherlock.  
>I won't. You're my best mate,<br>I'd never let him get to you.  
>Even if it means…<br>-JW

If I don't text back, just forget it.  
>Turn the other way and don't<br>come for me. This way only  
>one of us dies.<br>-JW

NO JOHN. ABSOLUTELY NOT.  
>-SH<p>

Sherlock shook with anger. He was angry with John for trying to give up. He was furious with Moran for having captured his friend without any known purpose. He cursed the fridge for not having kept the milk consumable longer. But most of all, he was completely disgusted with himself. If he'd been able to take out Moran when he'd had the chance, back in France. If only he'd answered his phone instead of observing fingernail specimens soaked in vinegar. If only he'd gotten the bloody milk. None of this would be happening if he'd taken a moment from his schedule to help with the damn groceries. He took a deep breath.

Wherever you go, I follow.  
>-SH<p>

Sherlock. No. Please.  
>I can't let you die.<br>Shit Shit SHIT He's turned  
>to me. I've got to go.<br>Wish me luck, mate.  
>-JW<p>

John. Stop this. NOW.  
>I will NOT let you leave me.<br>I promise you that. I promise  
>I will save you. Just hold him<br>off for a few minutes.  
>–SH<p>

No response for a few minutes sent alarms running rampant throughout Sherlock's mind. He sent a couple more desperate texts, hoping John would be able to see them.

Hold on, John. Hold on.  
>-SH<p>

For me.  
>-SH<p>

A few more moments of silence passed as the cab came to a halt in front of a looming building. He tossed the cabbie a few bills and exited the car; Lestrade ran up to brief him on the situation, but Sherlock didn't hear a word over the deafening sound of panic ringing in his ears.

John? Are you still there?  
>-SH<p>

No, sorry. The doctor isn't in  
>at the moment. Please try<br>again later or leave a message.  
>-SM<p>

Sherlock glared at the screen, teeth grit tightly. "Moran," he growled.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**

_So. Here we are again: part two of our favorite duo's struggle. No slash here, just a lot of drama._

_But never fear, dear reader! Fluff next chapter. Huzzah! But for now, have some Sebastian and his evil schemes._

_Thanks again to MTCrazy17 for her marvelous portrayal as John and Seb.  
>Check her out, she's got some nice fics to rifle through as well as the raw conversation for this story.<em>

* * *

><p>Inside the basement of the Co-op, John struggled to retain his composure. Moran was cleaning the barrel of a Browning L9A1 as if it were a precious gem. Usually the man had a sniper to care for, but with the closeness of this kill he wouldn't need it. John simply watched as the man groomed the pistol, eye completely fixated on it.<p>

Every so often, a text would come in from Sherlock. The latest read:

Wherever you go, I follow.  
>-SH<p>

Tears clouded the soldier's eyes as he tried his best to conceal a heartbroken smile. He didn't know what to believe at this point; he knew Sherlock was coming for him, that he'd be a while before he would be able to turn up, and that he had probably contacted Lestrade. But would the crazy detective honestly follow him to beyond the grave? He doubted it. Painfully, he typed up a new message.

Sherlock. No. Please. I can't  
>let you die.<p>

He glanced up to see Moran turned toward him, full attention now on John and the cell phone. As fast as he could, he finished his reply.

Shit Shit SHIT He's turned to  
>me. I've got to go. Wish me<br>luck, mate.  
>-JW<p>

John hissed as Sebastian grabbed the soldier's arm, attempting to pry the phone from his iron-tight grasp. But Moran had quite a bit of strength, and soon enough John was whimpering in pain as the man's clutch tightened around his wrist. Watson brought a knee into Moran's groin and, like that, he was freed. He ran towards the back of the room to find nothing more than a wall with a tiny window looking out to the sidewalk. John sure as hell wasn't going to fit through that, let alone be able to reach it by himself. Instead, he turned around to see his captor getting to his feet.

Sebastian leapt at him like a hungry lion pouncing upon a weak antelope. He knocked John to the ground with all his weight, hooking the doctor in the side of the face with a forceful punch. John reeled from the pain radiating throughout his jaw, releasing the phone from his grasp as he writhed beneath the gunman.

"Good boy," Sebastian whispered as John curled into a fetal position, clutching his jaw desperately.

Moran flipped through the most recent text messages. _All from Sherlock Holmes. Of course_.

Hold on, John. Hold on.  
>-SH<p>

For me.  
>-SH<p>

John? Are you still there?  
>-SH<p>

No, sorry. The doctor isn't  
>in at the moment. Please<br>try again later or leave a  
>message.<br>-SM

The man smirked as he received the response he'd been waiting for.

Moran…  
>-SH<p>

Oh hello, Mr. Holmes.  
>Missing your little soldier<br>ant yet?  
>-SM<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock spat as he read the text from Sebastian. The worm had gotten hold of John's phone, which meant one of two things: 1. John was injured and losing consciousness somewhere in the basement. Or 2. John had already been shot and killed. Judging by Moran's choice of words, the former was far more likely; neither possibility could be ruled out yet, though.<p>

Funny. I didn't expect  
>you to be the kidnapping<br>kind. More of the trigger-  
>happy gunman kind.<br>-SH

Oh yes, still trigger-happy.  
>But with Moriarty gone, well…<br>I can get bored too, y'know.  
>I've even got m'self a new saying:<br>"An apple a day gets the doctor  
>taken away."<br>-SM

Clever. Stupid. I'm not impressed.  
>-SH<p>

Aw. Well sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I  
>care not. All I care about is getting<br>even. An eye for an eye, yea? You  
>killed my Boss. I kill your pet.<br>-SM

Sherlock hated negotiating with psychopaths. Honestly, he should have pulled the trigger back in France, even if he would've been incarcerated for a few years. At least John would have been safe; then Sherlock could have called him up and asked for bail and explained everything from the safety of a prison cell. He shook the thoughts from his head, ignoring stares from Donavin and Anderson as they passed by. Sherlock jeered at them before responding to Sebastian.

Why not kill me instead? Let John  
>suffer the same pains you've<br>suffered?  
>-SH<p>

He hoped Moran would take the bait; unfortunately the man seemed intent on killing John.

Oh no… I want to make this poetic.  
>What better way to kill you than<br>killing your 'heart'?  
>-SM<p>

I've never been one for poetry.  
>Though I admire the creativity of<br>your plan. Half-baked, but creative  
>nonetheless.<br>-SH

Searching for Lestrade, Sherlock shouted "Have we found the damn entry point yet?" These Yarders were horrible at finding even a window in the side of a building. _How are any of them employed?_

Again, I care not. Either way, your  
>loyal pup will be dead by morning.<br>You may try to come rescue him,  
>but that won't end very well.<br>-SM

No? What makes you say that?  
>-SH<p>

The very moment you walk in is  
>the very moment I pull the trigger.<br>He's a strong one – I'll give you that.  
>Still trying to come at me. Hah! So much<br>anger in those eyes. He really cares  
>about you, huh? Pity.<br>-SM

"Sherlock! We found a good vantage point, 'round back." Lestrade jogged towards the consulting detective, only to turn around and lead him to the window around the other side of the building. "It's a great shot. Least, it _was. _'til John stood up. We shoot, we'll hit him first. No doubt 'bout that."

"Worry not. I've got a plan. I need to speak with your gunman." Sherlock pounded away at the keyboard, hoping he could execute this flawlessly. Moran would need to be overconfident in himself if this were to work.

Very well. I suppose I've no choice  
>but to listen to you for now.<br>-SH

He was brought face-to-face with a wide-eyed marksman; young, just out of schooling, been trained for nine months by some higher-up. This was his second mission on his own. He wore a solemn face, but couldn't conceal the smile in his eyes. _I hope this one will be a good shot._ "How are you with a gun?"

"Brilliant, sir. Toppa m' class."

"And how well can you remember instructions?"

"Same way, sir. Brilliantly." He gave Sherlock a nod as he said this.

"Marvelous. Well I need to brief you on some things. Should only take a minute." Sherlock updated both the gunner and the detective inspector on the plan before looking at his phone to Sebastian's reply.

Indeed you will. But I will let you speak  
>to him one last time. I've got him on a<br>leash like a good pup. Tell me, Mr. Holmes,  
>do you want to speak to your dog before<br>I put him to sleep?  
>-SM<p>

_Fucking arse. John isn't a dog. I will make you suffer for everything you've done._

Of course I do. Let me talk to him.  
>-SH<p>

One moment, Mr. Holmes.  
>-SM<p>

Not a minute later, Sherlock's phone rang . He answered with a hint of wariness to his voice. "John?"

From the other end came a weak sound, shaking and scratchy, as if he'd been choked earlier. "Sh-Sherlock?"

Sherlock's tone became firm and commanding. "John, listen to me. Do not speak. Do not move. Do not do anything unless I tell you to do so. Lestrade has most of Scotland Yard down here with me; they've found a small window for the basement on the west wall, directly behind you. Do not look to it. Do not search for it. I want you to look straight at Moran. Allow him to think I'm saying my final words to you."

"Alright…" the response was ragged. "I… Trust…you, Sherlock… m'sorry… for all this…" his voice broke slightly and breathing became noticeably labored.

"Breathe, John. You're going to be fine." His voice was still strict, yet he made sure to try to be as soothing for the soldier as possible. "I promised I would come for you." He heard a small sob on the other end of the line. "It seems we've got a good line of sight on Moran; a gun's trained on him, albeit the gunman is nowhere near as accustomed to stressful situations as you are, but he'll do fine. Now listen: Do you remember our keyword, John? Yes or no."

"I…m'a bit fuzzy… wha- sorry. Been hit in… in the head a… a few times. Barely remember my… name… right now." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the lack of discipline in the soldier. He'd said 'yes or no', not 'tell me everything you're thinking at the moment.'

"You know it, my dear Watson. When I utter those two words, you hit the floor and throw your hands over your neck for protection. Same situation as with the Woman."

"…mmmmoyeah. Remember… barely… the woman, eh? How… eh no… I un.. understand. M'good."

Concussion or not, John was quite unbearable in this state. "Stay with me, John. We're almost done here. You've got to react as quickly as possible. Pull yourself together as best you can. Now listen, john. Really _listen._ Close your eyes. Find all the negative emotion. Destroy them one by one: pain, fear, dizziness, anxiety, anger. Just breathe and tell me when you're ready to get out of that basement."

Through the ensuing silence, Sherlock heard John pull himself together, falling back into the steely mold of a soldier. He could hear a shift in the air as his body language completely changed from weak and vulnerable to cold and stoic. Watson cleared his throat before speaking in a steady voice. "I'm ready."

Sherlock smiled at John's re-composure, happy to hear his soldier with wits about him. Without hesitation, he gave the keyword, prompting John to hit the deck before the Yarder gunman would take his shot. "Vatican Cameos."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N

_I keep forgetting to add this, but Guess what guys? I don't own Sherlock or the characters involved_.

_Many thanks again to my RP partner, MTCrazy17, for her talented John/Sebastian dialogue. (No more talking for Sebby, though, I suppose.)_

* * *

><p>John threw himself to the floor as the words rang in his ears. No sooner had he ducked did he hear a shot ring out, followed by the sound of tearing flesh and cracking ribs; the bullet made its nest in Sebastian's chest, right in his heart. The man blinked before crashing to the floor in a puddle of his own blood.<p>

The soldier stayed down, taking a moment to let all his panic out. He closed his eyes and let a captive breath rush past his lips. A shake began to erupt throughout his being, starting in his hands and traveling inward to his core. Tears stung his eyes as he tried to comprehend the situation; he felt like a five-year-old on their first day of school, confused and upset over being left alone by their mother. John curled his knees against his chest as he silently sobbed into the ground. His head ached and pounded with every breath and movement; _Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. _The name ran through his mind rapidly as he attempted to calm himself down.

Within seconds, a pair of feet could be heard clattering down the stairs. John would have looked over if he didn't know who the sounds belonged to. He stayed rolled in a ball, deeply breathing until a pair of slender hands pulled him up into a proper position. A wave of relief crashed over John's heart as he allowed the detective to fuss over him.

* * *

><p>The moment "Vatican Cameos" escaped his lips, Sherlock made a beeline for the building's main entrance. He sprinted down the stairs, relieved to find John seemingly unharmed (he was folded up on the ground, though. In shock, obviously.) The detective flew to his friend's side to sit him up. He began to paw and pat at the blonde man's frame, looking for any serious injury. He seemed fine, though Sherlock was wary. John's voice had been far too shaky to have been caused by simple punches or slaps to the face; he did manage to find red fingerprints around the poor doctor's throat as well as some bruising to both arms and stomach. "Are you alright, John?"<p>

"Sh… Sherlock…" John blinked slowly a couple times, seemingly unable to grasp the situation. His eyes were glazing over a bit – the adrenaline was finally wearing off, giving way to unconsciousness. Sherlock watched the doctor struggle to stay awake, smiling tenderly before wincing in pain. He clutched his ribs and fell forward, landing in Sherlock's arms. The detective gently pulled the beaten man closer to him, feeling John bury his bruised and tearstained face in his shoulder. "S'okay now."

"It is ok, John. It's all ok. I'm here." He tenderly ran a hand through John's coarse blonde hair. He could feel a few contusions and bumps across his scalp – minor injuries. Ice and painkillers would fix them up just fine. Sherlock felt John flinch ever so slightly as his fingers brushed a particularly large bump.

The detective couldn't help but to remember a time his mother had made a similar gesture of compassion. He'd been beaten up in third grade by a group of boys, their main motivation simply because he was more brilliant than they ever would hope to be. Stupid people always were enraged by his mind, so he'd been given many punches through the years. He did his best to recreate the comfort that had coursed through Mummy's fingers as she petted his curly locks, brushing his tears away gently as he sobbed into her lap. It was one of the last times he'd allowed himself to be so public with his emotions. "You're going to be just fine."

John nodded into Sherlock's jacket, leaving traces of tears along the lapel and shoulder. "Never did get that milk…" he murmured. The detective smiled warmly.

"Really, John? That's what you're worried about?" He let out a sigh. "Don't worry, I'll get the milk. But just this once!"

Sherlock heard John chuckle and mumble something to the effect of _bullocks_ before he winced in pain again. Ribs must be bruised_. Moran had a good sense of where to hit a foe, I'll give him that much_. John interrupted the thought. "You're a lifesaver… literally."

"I'm glad I was able to get here when I did. I can only imagine what Moran would have done if I'd been even a few minutes late." Sherlock's eyes floated to the body lying feet away, bleeding profusely from a clean bullet wound. He'd be sure to ask Molly if he wouldn't be able to experiment on the body once it was in the morgue. He wouldn't let Moran slip peacefully into the grasps of death.

John's eyes followed Sherlock's. The detective watched him shudder, remembering everything that had happened. It seemed like days since he'd been kidnapped. Who would have thought the afternoon trip to Tesco would have been so dramatic? John then buried himself further into Sherlock's thin frame, hiding his eyes as he tried to comprehend everything. "Can we… Can we just go home now? Please… want to leave…" His head shook against Sherlock's shoulder as he tried to sink closer.

"Of course." A quick squeeze and the detective was helping the soldier to his feet. "I imagine the medics are going to want to give you a brief examination. Formalities, mostly, though you do have a few injuries that should be looked over. Perhaps they'll give you a nice shock blanket to complement those eyes of yours."

John gave him a stunned look before allowing himself to be led gingerly upstairs. He tried to shrug the comment off by continuing the conversation. "Anything sounds good right now… maybe a cup of tea, too." His grip on Sherlock was firm in fear of falling backwards to the ground below.

"Anything you want, we'll get." Sherlock led John out to an ambulance waiting on the curb, sitting him down on the tailgate as if he were made of glass. John sat quietly as the medics fussed about him; all the while, Sherlock kept a watchful gaze by the soldier's side, analyzing his friend's responses and body language. He was stressed, yet happy; his eyes screamed confused and tired, confirmed by the posture he held. A good night of sleep would be more than enough to cure those ailments. A shock blanket was put around the man's shoulders, prompting a smile to spread across his face as he wrapped it about himself. He still shook, but was steadily calming down. He kept a hand on Sherlock's arm throughout the exam, an assurance to himself that the man wouldn't run off and disappear.

Once the medics were satisfied with their work, a short one – been working for three hours, two cats at home, divorced with three kids, part-time gambler – turned to Sherlock and spoke. "Well, Dr. Watson here should be just fine ta head home. He has a slight head injury that isn't quite a concussion, but he'll be experiencing migraine symptoms for the next few hours. He'll be fine to sleep, no worries there. Make sure he stays offa his feet for a few days; he's got ta let those bruised ribs heal up a bit. It'd be best if he didn't sit for prolonged amounts of time either – lying down is tha best choice. Other than that, he can go home with ya now." The stout man smiled up at the detective.

"Brilliant. Can we keep the blanket as well? He seems to have taken a liking to it; and besides, red really is his color." Sherlock smiled down at John with a fish-eating grin. He placed a hand over top John's, giving it a squeeze as the medic nodded. "Thank you for your time. We'll be on our way. Afternoon." He eased the injured man up and led him down the street a bit, looking for a cab. "How are you feeling, John?"

The soldier unsteadily walked by Sherlock's side, one arm linked through the detective's for support. If he didn't have a hold on _something_, he would most definitely fall face-first to the cold road below. He looked up to his tall friend and grinned. "Better than a few moments ago. I'm just happy to still be alive, really. Thought he was going to kill me when I refused to surrender the phone. I really did think my time was up." He gave Sherlock's arm a light pat.

"You know I wouldn't let you get away from me so easily. No, no; that'd be too boring." He snickered, trying to calm the horrified thoughts of coming so close to having lost John forever. He let out a deep breath as he hailed a cab, helping John into his seat before climbing in. The soldier looked at Sherlock a moment before continuing his earlier statement.

"Thank you… back there… that was… um… good." John chuckled, remembering hearing something similar from Sherlock when they'd first met Moriarty. Sherlock smiled warmly at his companion.

"You're quite welcome, my dear Watson." The detective laid a hand on John's shoulder delicately, trying his best to kill the negative thoughts attempting to bombard his mind.

"Too boring. Indeed. Where would you be without your blogger, right?" John let his head rest on Sherlock's shoulder. "I feel bloody drained. Here I was, expecting a nice quiet day at the shop, but I get a war zone instead." He close his eyes in an attempt to soother his pounding headache. "Yeah… you're getting the food for a week. I'm staying away from the market." He chuckled.

Sherlock couldn't help but to smile at John's dark sense of humor. "Mrs. Hudson or I can certainly do that. And when you're good to walk about again, I'll accompany you on grocery runs until you feel comfortable going on your own." He ran his free hand though the coarse blonde hair adorning the soldier's head, being careful to avoid any bruised areas. "So is this one going on the blog as well?" Sherlock grinned.

John chuckled. "Sure. I'll put this one under 'Reasons you should take your gun everywhere.'" He tried to give another laugh, but was promptly interrupted by a yawn.

A quick laugh escaped the detective's mouth. "Or 'reasons to not frequent Tesco.' Your pick." The cab came to a halt outside 221B; Sherlock (for once) paid the cabbie and helped John out of the backseat. They strolled up the stairs slowly, ignoring a barrage of questions from Mrs. Hudson as they ascended. Once inside, Sherlock laid John out on the couch, wrapping the red shock blanket around him snugly before grabbing pillows from around the room. He wanted to make sure John was as comfortable as possible. "Still want that brew? Or would you rather sleep?"

John snuggled happily into the blanket, feeling his eyelids grow heavier with each passing second. "No tea. Maybe later… really tired. I'm just going to sleep for now." He mumbled under the cover. His hand snaked out from under the blanket, searching for Sherlock's. John didn't seem to feel all that well without knowing his friend was really there, that this wasn't all a dream. "Sherlock? Just till I fall asleep… will you stay?"

Sherlock took John's hand in his own, discreetly taking his pulse – slowed pace, his body was already putting itself into sleep mode – while ensuring the man that he'd stay. "Of course, John. I'll be here until you fall asleep. And while you dream, I'll be in my chair over there watching over you. I'll be sure to be the first thing you see when you wake, the last thing you see before you sleep." He smiled at his tired friend, stroking his face lovingly with his other hand.

"Thanks… for everything… today…" He spoke just above a soft whisper, sighing as his body gave way to sleep. John fell asleep with a genuine smile across his face, beaming from the loving gaze he'd been given by the one person he felt safest with.

Sherlock waited a few minutes before heading to his usual spot on the leather armchair. He ruffled his hair and took a deep breath, letting the details from earlier hit him full-force. He couldn't believe how close he'd been to losing everything that meant anything to him, how close he'd come to losing John.

The thoughts scattered as he heard a light snore escape John's mouth. A curt smile formed on the detective's lips; there really was no need to worry when the sleeping man gave him such peace. Sherlock then turned to a nearby book, preoccupying himself as he waited for his blogger to rouse from the deep sleep. He hoped John would be able to find peace in his dreams.


End file.
